Take Me Out to the Barfight
by LetThemRot
Summary: Spending too much time in the proximity of the Winchesters can be hazardous to one's health. Slight AU; Balthazar survives. Pure, undiluted crackfic.


The first time Balthazar gets in a bar fight, it's only sort of intentional.

He was never a fan of the dives when living on his own, you see; century-old Scotch and half a dozen flexible Parisian escorts were more his style. He's a high-class kind of guy. First rate. Authenticity all the way – everything as expensive, intelligent, and comfortable as it gets.

But really, that lifestyle is only prudent when you've got millions of dollars at your disposal because some people will do anything to get their hands on a scrap of Moses' staff. Once all the bank account numbers and liquid assets have been stripped away, you have a choice between the cesspit booze or nothing at all.

And so – because he needs _something_ to take the edge off of dealing with the Winchesters 24/7 – when Sam shoots a glance at him with raised eyebrows while Dean's tapping his foot impatiently and huffing _let's get going_ from where he's already half-out the door, Balthazar slides on a grin and says "I'd be delighted. Show me the best of the slovenly."

Dean's immediate response is to bang his head against the doorframe in exasperation.

An hour (or two – maybe even three; he hadn't really been keeping count) later, he's got three different kinds of alcohol mixing contentedly in his belly, and he's still more coherent than either Winchester. Admittedly, Sam is just sort of staring broodingly into every glass that comes his way, like each individual one is a woman who must be carefully courted before they can finally get down to the delicate business of fucking – or drinking, in this case. Balthazar kind of wants to ask if this is actually how Sam operates around women, because if it is then he's honestly shocked that the boy ever managed to get laid.

Somewhere around his fourth shot of whiskey is when Balthazar decides that he's been living as a human for too long. The siblings up in Heaven scarcely know what sex _is_, much less how one goes about it. It's just species-continuation to them.

_Poor bastards,_ he thinks, finishing off his shot.

Across the room, Dean is well on his way towards finding company for the evening, settled as he is with a redhead who seems to be composed entirely of long, lean muscle across the table from him. And she actually looks his age for once – wonder of wonders. Dean Winchester is thirty-four years old, yet most of his pick-ups don't seem entirely conscious of that fact, generally being about ten years younger. A bunch of attention-deprived children with father issues looking for remedies in all the wrong places, if you ask Balthazar – but no one ever does. Shame. The world would be a far more intelligent place if anyone ever actually _listened_ to him.

He has most definitely been living as a human for too long. The alcohol might actually be affecting his thought processes. That won't do anyone good.

Somehow he manages to be climbing to his feet at the exact moment a walking Napoleonic complex steps into the bar. The man can't be more than three inches over five feet, which, when tossed in with a round frame, thick glasses, and a hairline that is less 'receding' and more 'gone', is unsurprisingly packaged in a suit that's probably worth as much as the whole establishment. _Typical overachieving human impulse_. Balthazar watches him stalk between tables and tries to decide if it's more likely that a limousine or a Hummer is parked outside. _Probably a stretch Hummer, actually. He seems the sort._

And then the extremely observant angel of the Lord realizes that his object of amusement is making a beeline for Dean Winchester with a scowl that grows larger every stride. The redhead has her back to the man, and Dean's focused on her in a way that would be touching if it weren't about to get him in serious shit. Balthazar might not be a bar-crawler, but he _does_ know a thing or two about what generally happens in these situations.

A half-second of consideration has him leaning over to Sam, tapping him on the shoulder and nodding at Dean, the redhead, and Napoleon Junior. The younger Winchester's inebriation hampers his comprehension of the situation, but he's still only a few steps behind Balthazar as they move to intercept the coming storm.

Balthazar blames the alcohol for them not making it in time.

A meaty hand closes around the redhead's shoulder, and she jerks back in her seat with an expression of anger that quickly morphs into immobilizing shock. Her mouth opens. Whatever she means to say is lost in Napoleon Junior sweeping his arm across the table, sending glasses and a flimsy plastic menu crashing to the floor.

Dean is on his feet by the time Balthazar reaches his side, and Napoleon Junior turns on them, eyes flashing, mouth spewing half-formed curses, and lunges.

He's probably aiming for Dean. In fact, there is practically a guarantee that he is aiming for Dean. But the redhead has other plans; she overcomes her surprise _just_ in time to slam an elbow into Napoleon Junior's arm and knock him off course into Balthazar.

Pudginess aside, the man is _solid_, and his collision with Balthazar sends the angle stumbling backwards, into a nearby table that is helpfully occupied by a band of lunatics who all look like they live at a combination gym-tattoo-parlor. They can't decide who they blame more for upsetting their drinks, and so a dozen fists rise up against whomever happens to be standing closest.

And that is how Balthazar gets into his first barfight.

How he gets out of it is another story. It involves Dean's companion – who turns out ot have rather fabulous biceps – getting a Hell's Angel in a headlock, and a man with tattoos on roughly ninety percent of his body (chin and neck and backs of hands included) threatening to beat Napoleon Junior's head in with a wine bottle at the top of his lungs. And there's another redhead – smaller, lighter than the first – who carries a cellphone in one hand and a _Glock_ (_whatever happened to feminine handguns?_ he remembers thinking) in the other who tells everyone that the police are on their way, so it might be a good idea to show themselves out.

It takes the combined efforts of Balthazar and Sam to drag Dean away from twisting Napoleon Junior's spine – he wants to see if he can turn the guy's head completely around, he says – and out onto the street, whereupon Sam's left knee throws up its hands and gives out.

Burgeoning humanity or no, Balthazar can lift even a behemoth like Sam, so he gets the honor of half-carrying the younger Winchester back to the motel. Lights and sirens scream by just as Dean unlocks the door after his third try.

Still leaning heavily on Balthazar, Sam staggers inside, straight to the bed farthest from the window, collapsing facedown as soon as he arrives. He drags himself up to the pillows with arms that shake, buries his face in one, and immediately drops off to sleep.

Joints creaking, Balthazar pushes himself back to his feet with something that he swears isn't a smile decorating his face. He finds Dean on his back on the other bed, eyes still open, looking at him with a drunken version of contemplation. "Can I help you, Dean?"

"You fight pretty well." Dean blinks. "For a wussy angel, anyway."

_This wussy angel kept you from getting your ass beaten in by a modern-day Napoleon._ But Balthazar doesn't say that aloud. Instead he drops onto Dean's bed from the other side, propped up on his elbows, and ignores a grumbled protest. "Your method of fighting would get you arrested under normal circumstances."

Dean stares at him so intently that his eyes cross. "I did not understand a word you just said," he informs Balthazar, then rolls over so his back is to the angel. That's as far as he goes; not even bothering to reach for a pillow. "Fuckin' angels," he mutters under his breath.

The next noise to reach Balthazar's ears is a very loud snore. He smiles.


End file.
